


from the fading light i fly

by starblessed



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017), The Greatest Showman (Movies), The Greatest Showman - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anne To The Rescue, Anne is a badass, F/M, Fire, Metaphors, Role Reversal, canon-compliant suspension of disbelief (and physics), seriously enough stars/flying metaphors to choke you out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-28 00:24:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13259718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starblessed/pseuds/starblessed
Summary: Anne is huddled with her family, watching their home go down in a blaze of flame, when the first shout rings out."Where's Phillip?"Her heart drops like a stone. At once a thousand voices seem to rise out of the night, all carrying the same awful question. “Where’s Phillip? Where is Phillip Carlyle? Is he still inside?"





	from the fading light i fly

Fire.

_Fire._

The _whole world_ is _fire._

It clogs the air, spewing poison smog into the streets. Cinders rain from the sky, some glowing, some already extinguished before they hit the ground. The roar of the blaze is louder than anything. It rises above the shrieks of horrified onlookers and the despairing circus troupe. It is even louder than the frantic pulse of Anne’s heart.

The fire consumes the night sky in a relentless inferno. It swallows up the darkness, vicious illumination infecting everything it can reach. It destroys without fear, without mercy. Flames race up and up, floor by floor, higher than Anne on her trapeze, as they swallow up the building she calls home.

She pulls her shawl tighter around her shoulders as a gust of blazing air engulfs her. Strong arms pull her back, shoving her into Lettie’s chest. Instinctively, Anne wraps one arm around the sobbing woman; her other reaches out for her brother. W.D. is still hugging her, protecting her even as their world goes up in smoke.

(It is not the first time they’ve lost everything. They will rebuild together, they always have, but this loss is more painful than any Anne has known before.)

There is a harsh cut on W.D.’s cheek, no doubt from some protestor’s fist. His face is made darker by ash. He placed his hand on Anne’s shoulder, trying to shield her from the view; but silhouetted against the blaze of the Barnum Circus, all Anne can think is that her brother looks like an angel.

(Not an angel of light, with wings and a halo, the type that brings miracles to life. The type their mother used to read to them from their worn family Bible each night, before the children went to sleep. The avenging angels, who descend in a halo of righteousness, with flames licking their heels and retribution at their fingertips. W.D. is as fierce as any biblical allegory. He would make an excellent guardian angel.)

Lettie is sobbing into Anne’s shoulder. The Irish Giant stands, stoic and heartbroken; the albino twins clutch each other and hide their faces from the awful sight. Her family is huddled around her in shattered pieces, and Anne doesn’t know what she can do to make it right.

A sudden loud voice cuts through the din, and Anne is stunned to see Barnum emerge from the crowd. Why has he come back just in time to see his life’s work burn to the ground? He’s returned to the circus he abandoned, only to find it destroyed. The irony is so sickening that she wants to laugh, but all that comes out is a strangled noise (she refuses to admit it’s a sob).

Even the Barnum family is here to watch their legacy go up in smoke. Anne’s heart twists at the sight of Caroline and Helen’s horrified young faces. They don’t need to see this. On instinct she takes a few steps away from her brother and the rest, reaching out to comfort the crying girls.

That’s when the shout first rings out.

“Where’s Carlyle?”

Her heart drops like a stone. She does not know who says it first, but at once a thousand voices seem to rise out of the night, all carrying the same awful question. _“Where’s Phillip? Where is Phillip Carlyle? Is he still inside? Did he get out?”_

“He was in the ring,” W.D. exclaims. “I saw him in the ring!”

That’s all Anne needs to hear.

She doesn’t think; she doesn’t give herself the chance. Lunging away from the rest of the crowd, she takes off in a dead sprint towards the burning building.

 _“Anne!_ No!”

Her brother’s shout is agonized. She hears him behind her, feels his fingertips brush over hers for a split second before she jerks away. She used to win their races as children, W.D. always one step behind. Now she is running for a much different reason, and death is at the finish line.

She cannot think of the smoke, the flames, her brother’s screams. Her mind is only Phillip.

_(Blue eyes in an astonished face, suddenly right in front of her. Her arms extended like birds wings, always soaring higher, but for a second he brings her down to earth. She could touch him, if she just reached for him, and for an instant she cannot explain she **wants** to…_

_A charming smile, the smell of whiskey on his breath, a laugh that bubbled like the rich-people champagne she could never stand to look at. In him, though, she felt as if she could fall in love with champagne…_

_His hand in hers, warm and solid for a split second before jerking away. Harsh, wealthy eyes on her. The burn of humiliation, shame clouding his face, tears in her eyes as she runs away, her name called at her back..._

_His hands on her waist, their eyes locked, their voices mixed. Soaring together, feeling lighter than air, starry-eyed with a hopefulness she’d never known before. Reality combating with optimism, but wanting to believe so badly that it burned. Wanting to believe they could seize hold of each star in the sky and make it theirs..._

_The hurt in his eyes as she walked away from him. The way he didn’t bother to call her name, not then._

_Phillip on her mind. Phillip in her heart. Phillip pressed against her. Phillip trapped in the blaze.)_

Phillip is in there, and she needs to save him.

She quickly pulls her shawl over her head, shielding herself from the heat, and charges through the flame-filled doorway. The last shrieks of her fellow freaks die out behind her -- she swears her brother’s sob is the loudest of them all. The roar of the blaze fills her ears, swallowing their voices up.

She is not prepared for the heat. Rushing into the building feels like leaping headfirst into an over. Anne’s first instinct is to shout as the broiling air sears her, but as soon as she opens her mouth she chokes on thick smoke.

No breathing, then. She smothers her panic and focuses on taking as shallow breaths as possible, scanning the floor for any sign of Phillip. The entire building is hardly recognizable; it is a burning wasteland. The blaze consumes all the familiarity Anne knew so well. Making out the ring through the flames and smoke is impossible, because the ring is _gone._

The bleachers are not, though, and this is how Anne knows she’s in the right place. Row upon row of seats that filled every night with eager crowds are now sporadically on fire, crumbling in on themselves. More and more each second, the circus falls to pieces around her. As Anne looks on, a balcony collapses to the burning ground, leaving a gaping, hellish maw in its wake.

“Phillip!” she screams, tasting ash. Her voice, like everything else, is swallowed up by the fire. There is no answering holler, no cough, no cry of her name. Where _is he?_

She scrambles to the nearest wall, hoping for some relief from the heat, but the brick burns as hot as everything else. Her eyes sting; her lungs feel choked. She remembers leaving the safety of night behind her, and every survivor’s instinct screams to run right back out again. Anne has _lived_ by those instincts, but now she forces herself to drown them out. She cannot run away. She can’t abandon Phillip -- who loves her, who she loves more than she knew was possible -- to die.

She forces down the urge to flee, fights back the encroaching hysteria that threatens to overwhelm her. Panicking now _will_ get her killed, and Phillip too.

Desperate for something to ground her, she looks up. There is no arena above her, no sky, no stars. Only a solid ceiling of flame.

When she looks back down again, she finally sees him.

There is a black outline of a figure halfway up the burning bleachers. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe; but Anne _knows_ as soon as she spots him. Her heart twists like someone has seized it and is fighting to yank it from her chest.

He must have been trying to get everyone out, only to be overwhelmed by the smoke. His body lies crumpled where he fell, half-draped over one of the benches. He is limp as a ragdoll. A wall of fire encroaches above him, behind him, on either side.

He’s going to die if he doesn’t wake up.

“Phillip!” she screams again into the void. He doesn’t move. The fire edges ever closer, and Anne realizes that it’s up to her.

How can she save him? _Think, think._ The bleachers are collapsing in flaming pieces. The stairway up is a solid wall of flames. _There’s got to be a way._ She can’t run up, she can’t climb…

But she can still reach him.

Ever since she was little, Anne Wheeler has been able to leave the constraints of gravity behind. To step off the ground and soar — to be free, to taste peril, to dance on the brink of possibility. Anne has always been able to shed her burdens and _fly._

Her mind flashes back to gliding through the air with Phillip pressed up against her. She remembers pleading with him to tell her the impossible really is possible. His hope lifted her up; with him, she flew as she never had before. Something determined and furious clogs her throat, fuels her limbs, drives her forward. This will _not_ be how their story ends.

She knows what she has to do.

The nearest rope is tethered to the wall, not yet eaten away by the flames. She cannot see where it begins, but when she tugs on it the rope holds fast. She pulls it to her and quickly loops it around her waist, testing her weight as she goes. It holds, and keeps holding when she starts to run.

Her feet race across the burning ground. Burning air lashes her face, flames licking her heels. Her eyes remain trained on Phillip.

_(When she last saw him, the show had just ended. Sweat glistened on his brow; his eyes were bright, performer’s smile still on his face. He gave his all to every show, and the exhilaration carried him on afterwards._

_He was bidding farewell to the spectators filing out of the arena, calling after them to come back soon. The moment he spotted Anne, however, he fell silent. The smile slipped off his face._

_“Anne,” he said. Her eyes widened, and she took a step back. When he tried to move forward, she shook her head, pulled her tiny cape tighter around her shoulders, and rushed backstage._

_Her final memory was his blue eyes on her, bright with hope and sorrow.)_

She’s run away from him so many times. She will not leave him now.

Her foot kicks off the ground, and then she’s in the air. There is no rush of exhilaration as gravity suddenly ceases to control her. Being in the air usually brings her peace, but now she can only feel the thrumming of her own heart. Flames lash out, trying to snag her, as she soars over them. Fire burns around her, licking the hem of her dress. Debris continues to rain down. All she can see, however, is Phillip’s body.

When she reaches him, she is terrified she is already too late. The wood creaks dangerously under her feet. She catches him in her arms, hauling him up, only to find him limp against her. For one awful moment, she’s sure he isn’t breathing.

Then she feels a shallow breath against her, and her heart soars.

“I’ve got you,” she says as the bleachers again groan beneath them. “I’ve got you.”

She loops her arms beneath his elbows, and sees part of the bleachers next to her fall away. Below is a pit of broken wood and flames that seem to reach up, trying to catch her. She pulls Phillip close to her chest as the ceiling groans, steps to the left to avoid a crumbling piece of balcony — and leaps.

The bleachers fall to pieces just as her feet leave them. She cannot look back. The added weight of Phillip weighs her down, pulling her closer to the flames, and she nearly loses her grip on him. With a grunt, she pulls him up, but loses her rhythm as she does. When she looks up, she’s heading straight towards a curtain of flame.

She drops just in time, taking Phillip down with her. The rope hits the fire and is consumed in an instant. Anne’s arms tighten around Phillip, and she begins dragging him to the exit.

Her lungs are burning. She can feel the smoke clogging them, smothering her slowly. Her vision is cloudy, her head swims, and she feels the strength draining from her with every step — but she pushes on.

(Anne Wheeler has always been a survivor. She will not die like this. Not now. Not failing to save the man she loves.)

She can see the exit in front of her, past a wall of fire. She can see the night sky, the curtain of midnight that stretches so high above the earth. She can even see the glimmer of stars.

She has to make it.

She gives one more tug before falling to her knees. Phillip drops next to her, broken and unmoving. He is still as death. He can’t be gone, he can’t have left her that easily, he _can’t —_

“Anne!”

The last voice she would have expected to hear reaches her ears, and she looks up in amazement as a familiar figure leaps through the barrier of flame.

“Barnum!” she gasps, then gags on smoke. As Barnum reaches them, she pushes Phillip towards him. “Take him — he —“

“I’ve got him,” Barnum assures her, hauling Phillip into his arms as if he weighs nothing. When he reaches for her, Anne is already staggering to her feet.

There is a great roar above them. She looks up, and sees the sky falling.

Barnum leaps out of the way, Phillip cradled in his arms. Anne is hot on his heels. Behind her, she hears the great crash of the building caving in, all collapsing down on the ring that was once the heart of Barnum’s circus.

She does not look back.

When she breaks out of the building, the night air envelops her. It is possible to breathe once more. She can gasp, she can sob, she can see her family huddled together as their home burns to the ground. They call out her name as she reaches them. She all but collapses into W.D.’s arms.

“Phillip,” she gasps; then she sees Barnum lowering him onto a medical cot. _Tell me he’s alive,_ she prays. _I got him out. Lord, please tell me he’s alive._

Phillip’s chest lurches. He coughs, weak and choked with smoke. Anne can’t take her eyes off of him as they lift him up and carry him away. She can feel herself trembling, the aftereffects of adrenaline dying away, leaving her shaken and terrified.

As they carry him away, she shudders against her brother’s chest and fights the urge to sob.

* * *

She waits at his bedside through the night and into morning. Her head is a whirlwind, as consumed by fire as her home had been. While the circus lies in a smoldering heap, Phillip lies in bed, small and still. His hand is cold in hers. He looks _gone,_ and Anne has lost enough loved ones to know.

She cannot stand to lose Phillip, not after everything.

His words echo in her head; she tries to lose herself in the memory of his smile, his laugh. The song they sang together comes back to her unbidden, and she feels an echo of his hope spilling past her lips.

Phillip made her feel like anything was possible. She needs to believe that he can survive this too.

So, Anne waits. She waits through the night and into the day, waits even when Mr. Barnum comes to her, and W.D., urging her to leave and rest. She will not go. Anne sits by Phillip’s bedside and clings to the hope he showed her how to feel.

Anne is still waiting when Phillip opens his eyes.

“You’re okay,” is the first thing she gasps, close to tears. “You’re alive. You’re _okay —“_

“You saved me,” Phillip whispers, hazy eyes locked on her.

Anne cannot help herself when she surges forward, pressing her lips to Phillip’s own. He is burned and weak, battered and bruised — but he is alive.

They are both alive, together, and _that’s_ the way their story is meant to be.

There is nothing strong enough to tear them apart.

**Author's Note:**

> this is the sort of idea i have when i can't sleep at night.
> 
> anyways, i really like anne, and i really like flying metaphors, and i kept thinking about the fire scene and what would have happened if it was switched around... so i guess this happened??? anyways enjoy
> 
> once again, my tumblr is [abroholoselephanta](http://abroholoselephanta.tumblr.com/) and yes i am accepting The Greatest Showman prompts!


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